Page 68 of The Wildest One
“What’s two?”
“Two … I’m so fucked.”
Beck
And here I thought you would stay long enough that I could give you breakfast in bed. You ran out early. Are things okay?
Me
Yeah, yeah. I’m so sorry about that. I just had to get going.
Beck
Baby, come back.
Me
I wish I could.
Beck
Are you still in LA?
Me
Yep. But work stuff, remember?
Beck
What about tonight? Will you still be here? Do you have plans?
Me
I can’t.
Beck
No problem. When can you?
Me
Not sure—but let me see what I can do.
I stared at the words I’d just sent Beck, and my fingers shot into my hair, gripping the long strands while I rocked back and forth over the bed.
Not sure—but let me see what I can do.
What had I even been thinking when I typed that?
Why had I sent that response?
Why had I offered hope … when there was none?
SEVENTEEN
Beck
Iwiped the sweat off my forehead and tossed the small towel onto the incline bench, stretching out my chest and triceps before I did another set of chest presses and weighted dips. Music was blasting so loudly through my home gym—Eminem when I was maxing out, Jelly Roll when I was starting a new exercise, and Post Malone when I was walking out the pain—that there was no way I’d hear my phone ring or any texts come through.
